


An Unexpected Tailwind

by alyxpoe



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Martin's POV, Martin's hat, Pining, Secrets, Sex, Sibling Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Martin.” Sherlock folds himself down so that he can hold his brother by his skinny shoulders. “Victor is just a boy! You’re my brother!”</p><p>(A tailwind increases the object's speed and reduces the time required to reach its destination.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memories

  **An Unexpected Tailwind**

 

> A tailwind is a wind that blows in the direction of travel of an object, while a headwind blows against the direction of travel.
> 
> **A tailwind increases the object's speed and reduces the time required to reach its destination.**
> 
> A headwind has the opposite effect.
> 
> In aeronautics, a headwind is favorable in takeoffs and landings because an airfoil moving into a headwind is capable of generating greater lift than the same airfoil moving through tranquil air or a **tailwind** at equal ground speed. As a result, aviators and air traffic controllers commonly choose to take off or land in the direction of a runway that will provide a headwind.

A/N: _Martin, being who he is, I thought it appropriate that he would appreciate a tailwind because he seems to have no problem with his takeoffs…he just needs some help once he’s in the air. And, seriously, I just dragged that metaphor out the back door and hung it over a line to beat it like a dirty rug: let's see if we can get more out of it than dust and pet hair!  
_

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

**Chapter 1: Memories  
**

“ **S** herlock, why is there no one for me?”

Six-year-old Martin gazes up from beneath long, auburn lashes into his older brother’s eyes from where he sits cross-legged on the polished hardwood floor of their shared bedroom. His fingers are tightly clutched around the nose of a stuffed Piper in his lap. His back rests against his bed where the duvet hangs over the side, forgotten after getting out of it this morning. He swipes at his streaming nose then rubs his hand on his too-big blue pajama bottoms. Ten neat little toes poke out beneath them, wiggling in his distress.

Nine-year old Sherlock can never resist those sea-green eyes, even less so when they are full of tears. “Martin, I am here.”

Martin’s lower lip begins to tremble. “But,” Sniff. “Not all the time.” He wipes his nose again, this time with the back of his hand, still clutching the little smiling airplane with the other one. “Besides, you have that yellow-haired boy from the playground, Vicky.”

“Martin.” Sherlock folds himself down so that he can hold his brother by his skinny shoulders. “Victor is just a boy! You’re my _brother_!” Sherlock exclaims, thinking that is an easy enough explanation.

Tears now stream unchecked down his freckly cheeks and he leans in at the same time Sherlock does so that their curly hair—raven and ginger—seems to start on one head and end at the back of the other. Both boys are so wrapped up in each other that neither hears the click of the shutter that comes from beyond the partially open bedroom door.

***

Martin holds the photograph of the younger version of himself curled up in his brother’s arms between his fingers, gazing at the image as if it were some type of magical thing crafted only to remind him of the difference between himself and his brothers. Somehow, even at such a young age and only dressed in pajama trousers, Sherlock manages to look as regal as he does as an adult. Not that Martin gets to see much of his brother, mostly here and there in the papers or a snippet on the news those few times when he catches a story in passing. He does note that each time he sees the detective that Sherlock looks healthier, heartier and much less _wispy_ than Martin recalls from their youth.

Martin sighs.

In the picture, the navy blue bed clothes that were always in disarray are exactly the way he remembers them, as is the silly grinning Piper in his lap. Tucked into a drawer of his bureau in his attic bedroom is that plush plane, left there to remind him of his dreams whenever he happens across it. The silly thing does more than that, though, it serves to remind him of his first family, the brother that he was taken from against his will; it broke his seven-year old heart and since that time he has rarely been as close to another human being. He understands now that the family was torn apart by greed and lies, but it took years of digging to finally accept that none of it was his fault.

He is on his fifth retake of the grueling test for his pilot’s license and this morning was one of those times when he accidentally stumbled upon the toy and the few photographs he has of his first family. Martin chews the end of his pencil and stares out the window, wondering where the brilliant raven-haired boy from the photograph could be now.

Martin fails the test, again, this fifth time, mostly due to his daydreaming than any lack of knowledge on his part. At this point, he could technically be tutoring for this test; it’s just his terrible luck, he tells himself. He is nervous, sure, but the nerves do not account for all of it.

Tomorrow is his birthday and he will be thirty years old.

***

Martin turns thirty-two the day after he passes the CPL test: it has taken him seven tries, but he’s finally done it. In some ways he is thrilled to finally have succeeded, but in other ways it is almost a let-down after all the time and money invested. He celebrates by drinking a six-pack in his room, alone.

Two weeks later, he is hired on as a Captain for a tiny one-jet airline by a formidable woman named Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. He arrives early on the day he starts his new job and meets the rest of the crew: Arthur, Carolyn’s son and the air _dot_ steward, and MJN’s First Officer, Douglas Richardson.

Several hours later, Martin decides that Douglas is the biggest pain-in-the-arse he has ever met, and that short list includes his eldest half-brother that he has not seen in years as well as his adopted brother, Simon. Simon enjoys picking Martin up and swinging him around like a child, mainly because he is a good foot taller and at least three wider than Martin.

Several more hours later, when they are back at Fitton Airport, Martin is walking towards his tired old van with his exhausted self. In the dying light of day, he notices someone walking beside him and turns his head enough to see Douglas. For a short few moments, their eyes lock and Martin feels all the blood in his body rush to his face. Douglas merely cocks his head inquisitively, nods, and climbs effortlessly behind the wheel of a Lexus. He gives Martin a short wave. Martin returns the gesture. As soon as Douglas’ car is no longer in sight, the captain does a face plant against the steering wheel of his old van so hard that the horn blasts through the quiet evening, startling a group of crows as far as the end of the flight line.

Martin’s mind is exhausted from the grueling day of worrying that he will be fired any second, but his heart…

Well, his heart is now filled with the smooth sound of Douglas’ voice and the searching, questioning look in his brown eyes just now. Martin smacks his forehead on the steering wheel again and fumbles about with the key in the ignition. The decrepit thing finally fires up, but still Martin does not move.

He has a secret now and wonders how long he will be able to hide it.


	2. Surprises

**Chapter 2: Surprises**

Sherlock and his partner, a retired soldier and medical doctor named John Watson reappear in Martin’s life with all the drama Martin remembers surrounding him even from a young age.

One morning as Martin is completing the walk ‘round, a strangely familiar voice travels through the still air of the tiny airport to where he is standing, clipboard in hand, under GERTI’s offside wing. He shakes his head to clear it, thinking that it was his mind playing tricks on him since he ran across the grinning plane toy that morning when he was searching for a pair of socks. Martin is soon reabsorbed in his checklist and pays no more attention to the disembodied voice that travels to his ears in snatches. He decides that it has to be a figment of his imagination.

That idea is soon proved wrong, because, apparently, there is some sort of _scene_ and someone is being seriously taken down a notch…no, make that several notches. He clicks his tongue against his top lip and steps from under the shade of the wing and then lays his palm against GERTI’s nose.

It is a silly little ritual but because he has been doing it for two years almost daily; he refuses to give it up. For a single heartbeat he closes his eyes and mentally converses with the GERTI conjured by his mind: a tall, stately older woman with snow-white hair and half-glasses perched on her nose. It is pretty eccentric, he knows, but this silent communion in his mind makes him feel better about launching the old jet into the air. He looks at his long fingered hand spread wide over metal warmed by the sun and thinks fondly of the old girl before giving her a pat. Quickly he steps around to the other side and right into something solid.

Martin’s arms reel for a moment and he drops his clipboard, completely taken aback by a loud _Oof_ from the solid thing he has walked into.

A startled “I’m sorry!” bursts nervously from his mouth before he even has a chance to assess the situation. He grabs hold of what is turning out to be a person’s shoulders and steadies him then finds himself looking straight into a pair of jovial blue eyes framed by laugh lines. The man’s wheat-and-grey hair is trimmed neatly and his face his kind.

“Are you alright?” The man asks, gripping Martin’s shoulder with a strong hand.

Martin, as so always happens, finds himself virtually speechless. “Uh,” he squeaks.

Right then there should be a little more to say but Martin finds himself being scrutinized by the almost-stranger in a different, but incredibly familiar manner. The man’s eyes sweep from the toes of his black dress shoes clear up to the top of his hat.

Martin knows his face has surely gone roughly the color of canned beets and his head has gone a little swimmy.

“Good God,” The man says softly and whistles, starts to touch Martin’s face and stops. Just before Martin can crank up the courage to open his mouth again, his older brother appears at the other man’s shoulder.

“John.” Sherlock rumbles.

Emerald eyes meet silvery green ones five inches higher as two boys gaze at each other over the chasm of time.

Martin’s knees threaten to buckle and for a moment he really, truly believes that he is going to be okay.

Until Douglas appears behind the little group. Martin now knows what it means to have one’s eyes roll up into one’s head and that is his last thought before his body hits the smooth, warm runway.

***

“What did you do to my pilot?” Carolyn is loud enough outside the partially open door of the portakabin that her shout brings Martin around.

The captain strains his ears towards the soft rumbling baritone that he knows can only belong to his brother, unless that entire scene was a hallucination; but he cannot make out the words. Sitting up turns out to be an exceptionally bad idea because the entire room spins. Martin leans back against a pillow someone has kindly placed under his head where he is prone on the worn sofa in what serves as their employee lounge slash office. He suddenly feels cold all over which is intensified by the sweat beading on his forehead and under his arms; he begins to shiver so hard that the old sofa groans. Martin puts his arm over his face and tries hard to control his trembling frame; he thinks that he is always one step away from making some stupid mistake that will cost him his wings and wonders if perhaps now Carolyn has a reason to dump him and get someone in the captain’s chair who is actually _qualified_ for the job. Not to mention a captain who is too damned wimpy to even tell…

“Martin,” a calm voice pulls him from his spiraling thoughts. He sighs and drops the arm from his eyes. It feels like a lead weight, actually his whole body feels much too heavy, like he has just eaten a huge five-course meal and then fell asleep over his pudding. The air around him is very, very hot and freezing at the same time.

“Is Skip gonna’ be alright?” Arthur’s bright voice comes to Martin’s brain on Technicolor sound waves. His heart sluggishly pushes the blood around in his veins and everything about him just looks _wrong_.

Martin’s world goes grey as he fades out again; his mind catches the word _chocolate_ and it makes no sense at all.


	3. Acknowledgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How is it that he has suddenly been tucked under John Watson’s wing? Because, really, that is exactly what has happened here: in less than half a day Martin’s small world just grew at least by two.

**Chapter 3: Acknowledgment  
**

Martin comes to and finds there is a large hand on his shoulder that feels like it is trying to rattle his bones the way the mariachi band was rattling those maracas in Barcelona a few weeks ago. It feels like he has been asleep for hours. He slowly turns his head upward to find a terrified-looking Arthur holding an enormous bar of chocolate. The silver foil surrounding it has already been pulled back so that a few of the brown squares can be seen. They look like tiny brown holes punched into a bright fabric surrounding the steward and himself. Arthur’s red shirt and neat black waistcoat are stranger still.

“Martin, you need to eat this. Doctor Watson, I mean John, I mean John Watson, that’s Sherlock’s partner you know, sort of like a partner in crime…No, I don’t mean crime, they are _crime solvers_ and oh my gosh, Skip did you know you look a lot like the consulting detective, Sherlock? Did you know that? Here, you need to eat this!” Arthur holds the bar in the air, his cheeks reddening clear to the tops of his ears; he adds with hushed awe: “He’s a _consulting detective_ , Martin, can you imagine?”

And because Arthur’s huge heart can be seen by the blind, Martin reaches out and breaks off a neat row of the chocolate squares. Arthur kneels down beside him and watches him take a bite. Martin chews slowly, still feeling like he is stuck in a pile of paste. Every part of his body feels weighted down and chewing is incredibly difficult, but at least Arthur is quiet now.

After the first three little squares, Martin’s stomach growls loudly; quite embarrassed, he looks at Arthur who is goofily grinning at him.

“Go ahead, Skip, eat the whole thing.” The steward admonishes. A loud, mostly unclear sound outside the portakabin catches his attention and he thrusts the rest of the candy at Martin. “Mum’s calling me, I’ve got to go. Stay here and eat that. Doctor Watson will be back to check on you shortly.” Then he is gone, the door swinging shut hard behind him. Some of the light in the room dims just a little, making it easier for Martin to make out the objects around him. Nothing has changed, everything is exactly the same as before in the small two-room office, well, three, if you count the loo.

After half of the chocolate bar, Martin stops sweating. He finishes the thing in record time and tries hard not to think about how long it would have lasted if he would have simply taken his time with it. Martin is staring down at the crumpled purple wrapper in his hand when the door opens again.

This time, the man Martin assumes must be John strides over to Martin and holds out a hand. Martin takes it and is disgusted by how weak his normally firm grasp is; at least this time he's not trying to prove that _yes_ , he really _is_ the captain. 

“Martin Crieff, it’s nice to meet you. I am John Watson.” John obliges Martin with another smile and turns to pull a desk chair closer to the sofa. He sits down and crosses one denim-clad leg over the other then rests one hand on his thigh and the other one on the arm of the chair. He doesn't seem to be hurt or even irritated by Martin's clumsiness earlier. 

“Thank you for the chocolate.” Martin mumbles, casting his eyes on the end of the sofa where he notices for the first time that someone has removed his shoes. Embarrassment fills him up again when he thinks of the hole on the bottom of his heel; that takes him to the little stuffed airplane and he is beginning to think that maybe he ought to get rid of the damned thing because of the way it keeps resurfacing.

“You’re welcome, Captain.” John says.

Martin shakes his head. “Just Martin.” He does not look at John.

“I know you don’t know me, but there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask you.” John states.

“Actually, I know who you are Doctor Watson; no, I mean…I mean John.” This in response to the soft _tutting_ John makes at the formality. Martin turns to finally meet his eyes. “You are my brother’s partner.” It is on the tip of his tongue to tell John that Martin has learned more about his brother from the occasional peek at John’s blog than he has known about the man in years. He does not tell him, though, because his head still feels like it is filled with cotton batting and it seems a little strange to give someone that information.

“Yes, I am.” John answers truthfully. Martin knows that he is on even ground again when he looks into John's sapphire blue eyes. There is nothing false behind the doctor's expression; in that moment the two of them are an open book to one another. 

Martin nods, slowly beginning to feel like himself again.

“Martin, it is really none of my business, and I’m asking as a doctor, not …” John looks away for a second, then back to Martin. “Not to pry or anything, but seriously, when was the last time you ate something?” John’s expression is one of compassion.

Martin’s heart threatens to kick out of his chest in order to fill the empty cavity with nameless shame; he mumbles the answer: “Three days ago.”

John looks shocked then he flattens his lips into a straight line and sits back against the chair heavily. He shakes his head and looks away. Martin can tell he's reading the wall chart; John can easily see how many trips the captain has been on in the past week; and if he is as intelligent as Martin has a suspicion he is, he is going to easily put two and two together to get four. John’s frown gets a little deeper and now includes the lines across his forehead.

Martin knows agitation when he sees it. He also knows that admitting that fact, as much as it hurt to do it, has also lifted a bit of stress off his shoulders. His pride will only let that fact go so far, though so he waves his hand in the air. “Its fine, though, I’m healthy enough to withstand a little fasting now and again.”

Now the expression John turns on Martin is pure steel. The hand on his thigh tightens into a fist. Martin sees the reaction, opens his mouth to say something else and then snaps it shut. Yep. This is most certainly the man who keeps up with Sherlock. He really wants to ask him about Mycroft but one more glance at John’s face and Martin finds himself swallowing against a suddenly dry throat.

John says nothing, merely pins Martin to the spot with an icy glare. He shakes his head and moves towards the door. He leans out of it, holding it in place with one hand. There is a quick conversation and then John is back with Sherlock in tow.

“You sit.” John points at the space Martin has created on the sofa by sitting up. Martin cannot help himself from staring at the brother that has been out of his life for so long. Sherlock is wearing a dark purple button-down, a black suit jacket and black trousers. But the thing that surprises him the most is the way Sherlock’s haughty expression changes with the appearance of John’s curt, no- nonsense voice.

Sherlock sits, even goes so far as to drape one arm over the back of the couch, completely ignoring the burn marks and tears in the fabric patched over with gaffer tape. He looks weirdly at home.

Their eyes lock and it transports them back in time to when Martin has just turned seven and they are both set down waiting for their father to give them a lecture about ‘Proper Behavior of Holmes Boys.’ Of course, the one he remembers most is the night that the lecture never came, not that they would have heard a single word through their giggling. In fact, that was the day that Mycroft appeared with a small suitcase in one hand and a long black umbrella in the other and managed to walk out of Martin’s life; though at that point perhaps none of them knew that.

John clears his throat. “How I always let you do this to me, Sherlock, I will never understand.” He is pinching the top of his nose with two fingers. “Now there are _two_ of you.” John stares hard at Sherlock for a moment then at Martin. Martin blushes, feeling like there is at least one entire conversation he has missed, perhaps many more. Sherlock just stares back.

“We aren’t _children_.” Sherlock announces.

“No, no you aren’t. But do you realize how often you act like you are?”

Martin is beginning to wonder what rabbit hole he accidentally tripped into this morning. Maybe the little stuffed toy is like Alice’s medicine, having the ability to make him bigger and smaller simultaneously. How is it that he has suddenly been tucked under John Watson’s wing? Because, really, that is exactly what has happened here: in less than half a day Martin’s small world has grown at least by two. There is something heart-warming but at the same time quite terrifying about that fact.

Who can hide deep emotional secrets from the likes of these two?

Martin is as thankful that Douglas is not in the room as he is that whoever decided to make him comfortable only removed his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 3 2014, a teeny weensy bit of editing done because apparently I was listening to entirely too many voices in my head and made a couple of really stupid mistakes. All fixed now :D


	4. Pride

John uncrosses his legs then swings the opposite one over. Martin watches this little sit-down dance with unmasked curiosity. The world around him has stopped spinning. His stomach growls and he winces, shoving his palm against the skin there as hard as he is able in his weakened state.

John clears his throat, eyes Sherlock and speaks clearly. “Martin, whatever you are doing or trying to do to yourself by not eating…” He pauses, looks at the brown-spotted ceiling and back at Martin. “Alright, I admit that I probably have no right to tell you what to do…” Here he is interrupted by Sherlock opening his mouth.

John sends a frigid glare in the detective's direction. Sherlock's jaw snaps closed again so hard it sounds like it hurts. Martin feels like he has been dropped into the middle of a tennis match that he will never get to see the beginning of so he shakes his head back and forth, not trusting that he will not say something completely stupid.

John leans forward and rests his face in his hands, his elbows on his thighs. “Fine. I accept that you aren’t doing it on purpose, but you have to know that it’s got to change. Do you know why you fainted?”

Martin shakes his head again which is really a bad idea because now he is hungry and nauseous at the same time.

“It appears that your blood sugar was so low that you were barely standing. You’re a pilot, Martin; can you tell me why flying like that is probably a very bad idea?”

Next to him, Sherlock huffs. “Obviously,” he drawls.

Martin just stares at the big brother that has been missing from his life for so long, still unused to the Grade A extra-large Sherlock-shaped hole there being filled.

Sherlock stares back.

“Yes, John. I do understand. I can’t apologize for something I can barely control.” Martin’s eyes grow wide and he slaps his own hands over his mouth a second too late to stop the words, then cringes inwardly at his attitude towards someone who has been nothing but kind towards him. 

John nods sharply, his point made. “Maybe the two of you should talk a little while. I’ll be outside.” He points towards the door but receives no acknowledgment from either Martin or Sherlock. The door closes quietly behind him with a soft click.

Fragile silence rests in the space between Martin and Sherlock there on the battered old couch. This is new for the detective, being able to be silent for a time and waiting on someone else to speak first; so wait he does.

Martin sighs deeply and his shoulders slump forward. For a moment he considers just walking out of here; walking away from the scant memories and walking away from the things that Sherlock surely _knows_ now.

“Go on.” He says rubbing his eyes with his palms. “I’ve read John’s blog now and again. I know what you’re going to do.”Martin leans his head back against the couch and waves one hand between them. “Let’s get it over with.”

Sherlock studies his little brother shrewdly, eyes half-lidded. There are two things Martin fears him asking and he nervously waits for at least one of them to be brought into the light.

“Martin, you are a pilot; a captain. You aren’t suicidal. Why do you exist on next to nothing?”

Well, out of the two things, Martin figures that one leaves a little of his pride intact. Another sigh slips between his lips and he closes his eyes. Might as well man up and admit it. “I don’t get paid, Sherlock.” He does not look at his brother, but he can virtually _feel_ the disgusted expression surely plastered on the detective's face; right now, Martin just cannot bear it.

“Surely, Martin, you are making a joke.” Sherlock sounds a lot less disgusted and a whole lot more taken aback than Martin was expecting.

Martin opens his eyes and turns his head to face his brother. Sherlock has moved so that he is looking directly at Martin, one leg across the seat cushion. Martin could hold out his hand physically and metaphorically, but the idea of that is so foreign to his innate nature that he simply waits and shakes his head to the negative. “No. No joke. The only joke here is my life.”

“Martin.” Sherlock puts so much meaning into such a simple word; Martin cannot tell which of those words gets to his brother so he uses that as an excuse to change the subject, even for a little while.

“Tell me about John.” He states and looks at Sherlock. The change that comes over Sherlock is most certainly one that has to be seen to be believed: the man beams. Martin blinks; surely _this_ will derail Sherlock long enough for Martin to think of some way to get out of having this difficult conversation.

For a few short moments, Sherlock is quiet. Only his eyes move and they seem to flicker from studying Martin’s face intensely to looking at practically nothing. Martin is really unsure now. He decides to get up, but as soon as he gets a foot on the ground, Sherlock suddenly grips his forearm tightly and the front door is slammed open from outside. Douglas strides in through the room, wearing an expression somewhere between terrified and angry that Martin has never seen before.

“Douglas, I…” Martin begins.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Martin, are you alright? I saw you faint.” Douglas says, one of his big hands grabbing Martin’s and flipping it over to check his pulse. He glances at Sherlock but all of his attention is on Martin.

Martin makes a token attempt to pull away from Douglas but the First Officer’s grip is like steel. Martin hangs that way for a moment, suspended in time and space between Sherlock’s fingers tight on his right forearm and Douglas’ gripping his left hand. It seems to be some weird kind of metaphor that is probably significant but Martin is completely missing the point because Douglas’ hand is so very warm.

Martin tries to shake it off, tries hard to hide the blush he feels creeping across his face, which becomes a totally useless attempt simply because these two men are who they are. Even more odd is that Douglas lets go before Sherlock does.

“Tea?” He asks.

“Please.” Martin answers and will deny to his last breath that the sound he just made was a _squeak_. He pulls against Sherlock’s strong fingers. “Sherlock?”

Beside him there is a sharp intake of breath and then Sherlock looks down at his hand as if he has never seen it before.

“Martin,” he says, his voice pitched low. “Martin, when are you going to tell him?” He lets go of Martin’s arm and turns impossibly closer.

Martin finds himself frozen to the spot staring into Sherlock’s glinting green eyes. Martin wonders how someone sitting right next to you can lean into your space that much without actually touching you.

“You asked me to tell you about John, Martin.” Sherlock backs off now, stands up and adjusts his shirt, flicks off some speck of dust Martin cannot see. His eyes move from Martin’s face to where Douglas is filling the tea kettle in the tiny area of the portakabin set aside for this purpose. “I have no need to.”

Sherlock turns on the balls of his feet and right out the door in a single motion that would have left Martin reeling if he had the mental capacity left to worry about it. Right now all he is able to think about is that intense gaze that seemed to be seeing down into his very core. In two ticks of the clock, something slides into place for Martin and he thinks over everything he knows about his brother. John never says much about their relationship in his blog posts, but Martin really is no fool, no matter how he looks at this exact moment: the way the doctor feels about the detective is apparent in every single word he devotes to the man. It is the glue holding the patchwork fabric of their often chaotic lives together; the ties that hold them even when they are out of each others’ orbits.

Douglas hands him a steaming cup of tea fixed exactly the way he likes it and then crosses over to sit in the chair John pulled over. He is only a little more tense than normal. 

Martin studies Douglas, his train of thought now completely derailed; he takes a long sip of his tea in an effort to hide his thoughts. Douglas brown eyes look particularly appealing right now, as do his wide shoulders that are set off spectacularly by his crisply pressed uniform.

Martin sighs and wonders when his life became so complicated.

_“Martin, when are you going to tell him?”_


	5. Bacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...he is concentrating on restraining himself from yanking Douglas out of his chair and shoving him against the kitchen counter…

Somehow without Martin’s awareness in the process, he has been physically transported from MJN’s ‘office’ to an Italian restaurant—well, the only Italian restaurant in Fitton, actually—and is sitting across the table from Douglas. John is next to him, Sherlock opposite. Carolyn and Arthur sit at opposing ends of the large, oval-shaped table. Martin finds that he is staring at a large, colorful menu and feeling completely lost. Someone is talking to him. He blinks towards the voice and wonders vaguely if there was something else he was supposed to be doing today. Perhaps flying a plane?

“Martin?” Carolyn asks; her voice uncharacteristically low.

Martin snaps to attention and looks up, letting the menu slide from his fingers. A waiter in a pristine white shirt and a short black tie with a black apron tied around his hips is cocking an eyebrow at him. Martin looks around at everyone; they are all still holding menus, well, except for Sherlock. No matter, must be a drink order then.

Martin starts to order a glass of water with a lemon wedge because he cannot remember what is left in his wallet but he is cut off by Douglas ordering him a Coke. Martin mutely nods. The waiter leaves them and Martin can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.

“I’m fine.” He mumbles. John pats his shoulder and returns to what sounds like a squabble about Sherlock and eating.

“Sherlock,” John hisses.

Martin feels the movement beside him but stubbornly refuses to be the reason Sherlock sighs and mumbles something that sounds like _alright, I will_. If he doesn’t see it, he can ignore it. Carolyn and Douglas are discussing the merits of fresh parmesan cheese versus mozzarella and is Arthur fiddling with some game or other on his mobile. Martin begins to relax and somehow makes it through dinner without staring at Douglas too much.

***

A stomach full of ziti chicken Alfredo is going a long way to making Martin feel more like himself. A full glass of Pinot Noir appeared sometime between the pasta dishes and the tiramisu. Martin’s brain is pleasantly fuzzy as he listens to the conversations around him. Carolyn is rearranging their flight schedule and Martin thinks he heard that he is going to have a full three days off in a row.

“It’s too bad the van is barely running again. I could be filling up that time with you know,” here his hands hit the table a bit harder than he had planned, “my paying job. Or something…” He takes another sip of wine that soon becomes a deep drink. When he looks up again, Douglas and Sherlock are both studying him closely. They catch each others’ eyes and there is a nod that Martin barely sees.

Something in the air has changed.

There is a minor scuffle in the doorway of the restaurant as Martin’s world topples a little too far to one side and he finds himself being held steady against Douglas’ broad chest. His back is to the first officer and he is facing John who is gripping one of his arms tightly.

Martin cannot contain the heat he feels creeping up his neck as he takes in the concerned look at John’s face and lets out a silly, high-pitched _giggle_.

John shakes his head, claps him on the shoulder and says something to Douglas about tomorrow and when he turns to follow Sherlock out the door; Martin swears he hears a word that sounds amazingly like _lightweight_. He wonders where in the world Sherlock began mumbling then chalks it up to his own current mental state.

None of that matters now, though, because Douglas is managing to propel him along towards a taxi and depositing Martin on the long backseat. When Douglas settles next to Martin and gives the cabbie his address and not the captain’s, Martin giggles a little more. He tries to hide it behind his hand, but Douglas just shakes his head and smiles. Martin is only aware of a warm hand on his knee when it is removed to open the door.

Martin knows he is being led upstairs and then he is nestled into soft, warm bed clothes and a bedroom door is closing quietly. His last thought before he succumbs to the wine, a full belly and utter exhaustion is that it is not dark outside yet.

***

Martin is twenty years old when he learns that he is, without a doubt, 99.9% gay. The disastrous date that proves this fact to him, yes, much later than most people discover, happens one Saturday night when he goes out of his way to impress a girl named Natasha. They have a few of their classes together and she seems relatively easy to talk to, not to mention that she prefers jeans to skirts and everyone who knows her calls her “Nate.”

Martin has listened to the other guys in class talking about the girls they have dated, and what they have done on those dates. He is incredibly nervous but a little more than thrilled when she accepts.

That evening, he meets her outside her dorm and presses a tiny bouquet of tiny white daisies into her hands. She smiles and tells him that he doesn’t have to. Martin holds out his arm and she takes it. Nate is wearing skin-tight denim, oxblood cowboy boots, and a silk button-down blouse; her hair is pulled up into a neat pony-tail and she looks at him like he is a treasure.

For the most part, the evening passes well. They are both reasonably intelligent, she listens to him talk about planes and he learns some things about architectural engineering that he never would have known otherwise. The conversation flows during their dinner and into the movie theatre.

There is an uncomfortable moment when Martin isn’t sure where to put his arm, but Nate doesn’t seem to mind. As the previews play, he studies her brown hair and watches her expressions and tries to think about what it would be like to kiss her when her arm rubs against his.

Martin cannot even imagine it. He turns his attention to the stars of the movie, a woman and a man; he is definitely more interested in wide shoulders and muscular arms than curvy hips and breasts. Martin’s brain comes to a complete halt right then and there. He turns to Nate, mumbles something about needing to use the loo and walks out of the theatre, never looking back.

Two weeks later, he slides a letter to her into the box outside the girls’ dorm, but he never hears another word. His apology is as fresh in his mind now as it was then: he told her she was wonderful and that he thought of them as friends. Martin said he left because he was afraid that she would want to have sex with him. Of course, he completely chickened out and said that he wasn’t yet ready, but he knew that she was intelligent enough to read between the lines.

***

Martin stares at the ceiling in an unfamiliar bedroom and tries to breathe evenly through his nose. His head is pounding as if he drank the entire bottle of wine, but he could swear it was only one glass and tries to remember if he has ever felt this way for so long after a fainting spell.

Which of course has happened before; the only reason why he did not tell John about it is simply because he did not ask. Somehow Martin’s usual streak of unlucky has managed to hold out because it seems to have only happened on his days off, and then only after particularly straining man-with-a-van jobs, ironically, when he has enough cash in his pocket to get at least a handful of groceries.

Martin stretches his arms over his head and rolls his neck, thinking how lazy he is going to seem to be if he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. That becomes next to impossible, however, because there are two light taps on the door before it opens. Douglas strides over to the bed and Martin fights himself to keep from burrowing under the covers. Douglas, as per usual, looks amazing in his hunter green dressing gown and navy blue pajama bottoms. Martin’s eyes follow the lines of the big man, taking note that he does not have a hair out of place. The only thing about him that looks slightly rumpled is the stubble on his jaw.

“Good morning, captain, _sir_ ,” Douglas intentionally does that _thing_ with his voice; Martin hopes beyond hope that he has managed to hide his reaction well. “Feeling better today, are we?”

Martin shakes his head and pulls the soft comforter up to his chin. Douglas chuckles.

“Martin, I’d swear you are looking right through me. Had an interesting conversation with your _brother_ yesterday while you were in getting acquainted with Doctor Watson and you know, that is one thing the two of you have in common.”

Douglas sits down at the edge of the bed, unconcerned about their physical proximity.

Martin thinks that his brain must still be a bit muddled, because for a moment he doesn’t know if Douglas means the ‘looking right through me’ or the ‘Doctor Watson’ part of that sentence. He shrugs lightly and tries to deflect Douglas from asking the questions that hang heavily in the air between them. Martin holds the first officer’s gaze for a few seconds before dropping his eyes to where his fingers are lightly tangled in the bed clothes. “Actually, he prefers to be just John.”

Douglas chuckles again, the sound going a long way to warm up Martin’s heart. It is getting more difficult by the minute to hide. “Alright, captain mine, you seemed to get along quite splendidly with _Just John_. Your brother, though….”

Martin can only speculate about the types of things Sherlock could possibly say that Douglas can’t even put into words. “I barely know him, Douglas.” He says as evenly as he is able.

Douglas pats Martin’s knee where it rests beneath the comforter and brushes his palm over the smooth cotton. “I understand that, Martin.” He gives him one more pat then stands up. “I’m going to make us some breakfast and if you would like to tidy up a bit, you are more than welcome. Your uniform shirt and trousers are there.” Douglas points to the back of a wooden chair where Martin’s clothes have been neatly folded.

Martin nods. “Thank you, Douglas.” It comes out in a whisper.

“See you in a few.” Douglas states before slipping back out of the door.

Martin lets out the breath he’s holding and quickly yanks down the comforter, somehow glad but at the same time a bit disappointed to find he is still wearing the white cotton T that he keeps on beneath his uniform shirt. Well, that’s alright then. He still has a lot of healing to do before he is ready to share. With that thought, he climbs out of the bed, gives it one last hopeful look then makes his way to the loo to freshen up.

His stomach growls and gurgles while he makes use of the facilities. Martin gets a little irritated with himself for smiling when he finds a brand-new toothbrush and a disposable razor on the sink. He shakes it off quickly, though, because the smell of frying bacon is a Siren’s song that is almost as difficult to ignore as one of Douglas’ ridiculous word games.

***

Breakfast turns out to be an unusual affair. Martin is torn between spending time alone with Douglas and the need to get away from him as soon as physically possible. He takes the offered cup of tea and manages, despite his nerves, to eat two home-made biscuits slathered with real butter and honey plus enough bacon that he is actually embarrassed about it.

Through the entire meal, Douglas keeps up a running commentary on all the ways Martin is like his older brother. Martin doesn’t have enough heart at the moment to tell Douglas that there are actually _two_ older siblings because he is concentrating on restraining himself from yanking Douglas out of his chair and shoving him against the kitchen counter, and well, there's _bacon_.

Wait. What? Oh God, Douglas absolutely _cannot_ be privy to this. The first officer has stopped mid-monologue and seems to be looking at Martin in a way that Martin could swear he just read his thoughts. Martin blushes from his toes to his forehead and nervously runs a hand through his hair.

“Martin, you don’t have to be so embarrassed to look _satiated_ from indulging in a few rashers of bacon.” Douglas’ voice fills Martin’s brain so completely that he’s almost unaware that the man has stepped closer.

In the two seconds it takes his brain to catch up with the rest of his body, Martin almost chokes on his tea. “I’m not,” he mutters.

“Not what, _sir_?” Douglas intentionally rolls that last ‘r.’ It does funny things to parts of Martin’s anatomy that Martin hasn’t really taken an interest in for quite some time.

“Uh.” He says, eloquently. He looks around the room at anything but Douglas. “Excuse me for a moment?” Martin manages to stammer as he bolts towards the bathroom because if he stays in the kitchen a second longer he is going to act on his impulse to haul Douglas down to him and kiss that smirk right off his face.


	6. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin idly wonders how many purple shirts one man can own.

**Chapter 6: Bonding**

After Martin flees from the kitchen, neither man has much to say to the other. Somehow they manage to communicate that Martin is ready to go home.

Of course, he really isn’t, but there seems to be no available excuse that he can use to stay. He has no more clean clothes here and he is desperate to wring at least one van job out of the next three days. Martin says nothing to Douglas until he pulls up in front of the old student house. He gets out and fervently hopes that Douglas does not see his hands shaking when he opens the car door.

“Thanks, Douglas.”

Douglas gives him a nod and a smile then starts to say something else but Martin cannot bear pity of any sort, so he turns on his heels and makes his way to the house. Most of the students are in class at this time of day, so the trip up to the attic is a quick one. The keys from his pocket jingle as he unlocks the door and steps into the room that he never really thinks of as _home_. It is just a place to be where there is nowhere else: his stuff is there and apparently ...so is his brother.

“Sherlock, how the hell did you get in here?” Martin’s voice may be raised a bit above what is considered polite as he addresses the long figure draped over the futon. He drops his keys onto whatever hard surface presents itself and rests his hands on his hips.

Sherlock opens his eyes. “I was beginning to get bored.”

Martin huffs and grabs some clothes from his bureau. He opens the top drawer for a clean change of pants and socks and almost closes it on Sherlock’s fingers.

“Hey!” The old stuffed plane is being plucked out from where it has nested at the back of the drawer for the past several years. He has had strangely vivid daydreams of being old and dying here and passing it onto the next generation of students in the house just as he has been the ‘pilot upstairs.’ It would give them something to remember him by; that is if any of them saw fit to do so.

Sherlock takes Martin’s attention back to him because he is holding the toy up and examining it as if it is evidence at a crime scene. Martin watches him and thinks of a dozen different things to say, but they all sound exactly like _That’s mine, I want it back._ The voice in his head is so ridiculously whiny he has to turn away to the small bathroom to shower.

Sherlock, being who he is, apparently does not see Martin’s manner as rude. When Martin steps out of the bathroom clean and dressed, Sherlock offers him a tight smile.

“Sherlock, why are you here?” Martin asks, thinking of a way to call the lady back from a few days ago who needed some big file cabinet moved. He had to put her off until early next week, but if he can get to it today that would mean his next day off would be wide open.

Sherlock shifts on the futon, holds the toy back out to his little brother and actually mumbles. Martin slides the Piper back into its hiding place and says, “What?” He is really on uneven footing here. How in the world do you talk to someone you barely know but spent your childhood idolizing?

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes at the ceiling, irritated that Martin seems to be slow in catching on. “JohnsaysthatweneedtospendsometimetogetherwhilstweareinFitton.” The fingers on Sherlock’s left hand drum against the arm of the futon while the right one makes some sort of dismissive gesture between them.

Martin just stands there, collects his thoughts and somehow manages to parse apart that weird sentence that was probably as painful for Sherlock to say as it was for him to hear. “Right,” He says and pulls his mobile from his jeans pocket. He ignores Sherlock long enough to make his call to Mrs. Darby, who is quite pleased that Martin can get to her today. He sets the appointment time for an hour from now then sits down on the floor.

“Are you on a case?” He asks Sherlock.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him and Martin can clearly see the lie forming there. He wonders if his face looks the same way when he tells Douglas he is _fine_.

“Don’t.” Martin says sternly.

Sherlock’s expression changes to one of complete, honest surprise. He closes his mouth and puts his fingers in front of it, an obvious effort to contain the words that Martin can practically see. He crosses his long legs to reveal royal purple socks peeking out between the hem of his trousers and his black shoes. Today’s shirt _du jour_ is about a shade lighter than those socks. Martin idly wonders how many purple shirts one man can own.

“What gave it away?” Sherlock asks, this time letting the mask drop. Martin gets the impression that particular phenomenon does not happen very often. He makes a mental note to really sit down and talk to John at some point.

Now it’s Martin’s turn. He raises his own auburn eyebrows in imitation of Sherlock’s and plasters the same snarky know-it-all grin on his face. Sherlock’s eyes widen and then he does something even more amazing: he laughs. Martin snickers, too, and with that they begin rebuilding the bond stretched thinly between them that somehow never really snapped.

“Well, as you heard, I have a job today. You are welcome to tag along and you won’t have to do anything…” He pauses and waits for an answer. What he gets is a simple head nod and hand pointing towards the door. Martin shrugs, grabs his keys off the tiny table that doubles as a desk and leads them down the steps.

For once, the old van decides to behave and starts on the first try. Martin vaguely remembers mentioning the vehicle yesterday, and he’s glad it wants to cooperate. He has no illusions that whatever it is he feels when he is piloting GERTI most certainly in no way resembles his constant irritation with the van.

Sherlock climbs into the passenger seat, looking completely at home among the old receipts, empty cups and dust that always seem to accumulate between jobs. Martin reaches over him to open the glove compartment and pulls out a paper with Mrs. Darby’s information written on it in his own tidy scrawl.

“Here, it is going to take us about forty minutes to get there so hold on to this.” He passes the paper off to Sherlock who scans it quickly. He flips it over, makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat but says nothing else. Martin ignores him in order to concentrate on the road. Sherlock puts his feet up on the dash and closes his eyes. 

The drive to Mrs. Darby’s now-closed office in a run-down strip mall is interestingly marked by a Sherlockian interrogation. He asks Martin the oddest stuff, not exactly prying, but it seems to Martin that Sherlock already knows the answers to his questions anyway. It is good, though, because talking helps Martin relax. Making it even odder is the fact that Sherlock never once opens his eyes during any of it. 

Until Sherlock asks about Douglas and Martin almost misses the left-hand turn that connects the main road with the driveway. He hisses sharply between clenched teeth as the old motor whines a little when he has to change gears.

“Interesting.” Sherlock says softly, intensely staring at his baby brother.

***

In the end, and much to Martin’s amazement, Sherlock actually helps. The file cabinet weighs more than he bargained for and with Sherlock on one end and Martin on the other they manage to get it into the van without a fuss. Still, by the time they load the enormous industrial grey thing, drive it back to the Mrs. Darby’s new store and then spend fifteen minutes moving it from one wall to the other and then back again, they are both sweating through their clothes. He wonders why he never mentioned to Mrs. Darby that it would have been much easier to handle had it been _empty_.

Martin guides the van home and the elderly motor shuts off with a clatter and a bang. Martin sighs and waits for Sherlock to say something snide. When nothing is forthcoming, he gets out and heads for the house.

“Let me get cleaned up and I’ll take you…” Martin is stopped in his tracks because there is a intimidatingly posh, unreasonably glossy black sedan with dark-tinted windows parked in front of the house. It is blocking the walkway and Martin has the impression that the driver could care less about parking legally.

Beside him, Sherlock sighs and hisses _, "_ What fresh hell is this? _"_

Martin looks at him and frowns.

“Martin, this will go easier if you follow my lead.” Sherlock says as he opens one of the back doors just as the driver is getting out of the car.

Many scenarios present themselves to Martin right then and there. Visions of Mobsters and spies dance through his head. He’s not sure whether to be frightened out of his mind or excited. He bucks up his courage and follows his brother into the car. The back seat has been transformed into two seats that face each other. Sherlock is scowling, his arms crossed over his chest and staring out the window.

“Hello, little Martin; so good to see you after all this time.” A tight voice says. Martin blushes and turns to face his oldest sibling, Mycroft. Martin is forcefully aware of his grimy, sweaty old clothes because Mycroft is primly dressed in a light grey three-piece suit, complete with a gold watch chain in the pocket of his waistcoat.

Martin stares, at a loss for words.

“Mycroft, Martin is busy.” Sherlock states firmly; Martin notices that he never takes his eyes from the window.

Mycroft frowns for about a second before his face resets itself in his best _lowly government employee_ expression. Martin believes it not at all. Over the course of the afternoon, Sherlock has given him a few details about their shared sibling so at least Martin isn’t completely wrong-footed.

Ultimately, he finds that he’s really not even that surprised to see him after the way he described the first time John ever met him. At least this way, Martin feels less _stalked_.

The car starts to move. “Uh. I’d really like to change my clothes.” Martin says to the umbrella. He is uncomfortable and the skin on his back is beginning to itch where the sweat is drying on it.

Mycroft makes a soft noise in his throat.

“Indeed, my brother, indeed. However, I think a change of venue for you for a bit is what the doctor ordered.” Mycroft tells him when Martin finally meets his gaze. Beside him, Sherlock snorts.

Mycroft ignores him rather loudly, much to Martin’s amusement.

“So, tell me, Martin, how are you? Are you recovered from your fainting spell yesterday?”Mycroft asks, scratching at one eyebrow with a pinky finger.

Martin looks from Mycroft to Sherlock. “Why did you need to tell _him_?” He asks, flabbergasted. Mycroft has never really been much more than an incomplete shadow to Martin and he's not sure if maybe things are better that way.

Sherlock finally turns his eyes away from the window. “I didn’t,” he states, firmly.

For some reason, Martin believes him. Any other path simply leads to madness.

“He did not need to inform me, Martin. All the evidence is present.”

Martin really doesn’t even want to know. At the moment he has other secrets he’s not ready to have light shown on yet. He clears his throat and leans forward some to keep his back off the seat.

“Yes, I do feel better, thank you. If you really need to know, I had an enormous breakfast with Douglas this morning.”

Mycroft cocks his head, raises and eyebrow and flicks his eyes from Martin to Sherlock. Martin sees Sherlock shakes his head ever so slightly from side to side. Mycroft frowns but says nothing else.

The car finally stops in front of the nicest hotel in Fitton where Sherlock is presumably staying. The detective is out of the car and traipsing up the stone steps and Martin is left alone with Mycroft. Actually, his exit is blocked by the simple fact of a long, black umbrella being placed horizontally across the seats.

“Martin, I am only going to say this once, so please listen.” Mycroft’s voice is low, serious.

Martin listens. When Sherlock looks at him, he feels like he is being _read_ ; however, when Mycroft does the same thing, Martin feels absolutely _dissected_.

“First, I will apologize for my lack of,” here he clears his throat again as if the words are stuck. “ _Attention_. Understand that has now been remedied. Your life will not change drastically overnight as I felt that would be a shock to your system; however, you will find that some things will simply become easier for you in the future. Your keys, please.”

Mycroft holds out his hand and Martin feels compelled to pull them out of his pocket: all three of them are on the same ring. Mycroft takes them and they disappear.

“Do not worry, little brother. Go now, enjoy a bit of relaxation on me. John and Sherlock are waiting on you. I will pick you up at this time tomorrow and escort you home.” With that, Mycroft moves the umbrella and nods.

Martin has no idea what he is supposed to say, mostly because he is as intimidated as he is curious about what Mycroft has just told him, so he whispers a thanks and gets out of the car. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, but John is standing on the top step. He gives Martin a little wave as the car pulls away from the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should apologize because this was only ever intended as a little one-shot but these boys just all have to have their say.


	7. Laughter

Martin is beginning to feel like his life has completely slipped out of his control, sort of like a twin-engine plane only running on one. Of course, in that case, it is always the landing that’s the hardest part. After so many years of _nothing_ , though, he figures that going along with it for awhile probably won’t hurt anything. When he reaches John, he gets a sturdy pat on the back.

“Hey, Martin. Bet that was weird, yeah?” John grins and bumps his shoulder against Martin’s and jerks his thumb back towards the street from where the black car has disappeared.

Martin tries to smile and the weak little laugh that escapes his lips only serves to irritate him. Once again, he is aware of his dirty body. “So…” he says, knowing full well that he’ll always lack his brothers’ powers of eloquence.

John chuckles. “Come on in, His Highness will have already showered by the time we get to the room. Mycroft has demanded that we keep you occupied for a few hours. Not that we usually take orders from him, but we are going to be here at least two more days. Is there anything interesting to do around here?”

Martin can’t bite back a real smile this time as he follows John to the lifts. The silver doors open with a ding and the two of them step inside.

“Do you mean around this hotel or around Fitton in general?” Martin asks.

John shrugs. “There’s an arcade of sorts downstairs by the pool if that would be entertaining enough. I don’t think I can take Sherlock in there, though, he’ll have the games stripped down to bare wires in seconds the first time he loses.”

The lift stops on their floor and they step out. They walk side-by-side down the corridor as John fishes the card key from his back pocket.

“Well, that doesn’t leave much. We could head over to the…” Martin’s face blanches then goes crimson. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Captain, if that is your best ‘What’s an amazing Sky God like you doing in a place like this?’ you seriously need to work on your lines.” Douglas declares smoothly. He is standing against the wall next to the door, legs elegantly crossed at the ankles; brown eyes aglitter in the dim light of the hallway, making Martin think of polished amber he saw in a glass case at a museum once.

Martin stares because frankly, he is really at a loss for what to do next. Douglas is always an imposing presence in his uniform, without a doubt. However, in dark wash jeans and a well-fitting blue and white striped button down, he is droolworthy. His dark, wavy hair looks soft enough to touch; so much so that Martin feels torn between doing exactly that or bolting right back the way they came.

As Douglas and John chat while John opens the door, Martin closes his eyes and gains control of his mind. How is he supposed to relax when the one thing that makes him so tense is close enough to touch?

John goes into the room but Douglas stops to look back at Martin. “After you, sir.” He holds the door open for Martin to pass through. Martin can feel the heat on his face and fervently hopes he doesn’t smell too horrible. He nods his head as he passes Douglas, thinking that maybe he got away with it when the first officer doesn’t say anything.

The _room_ turns out to be a suite, complete with dining area, sitting room, kitchenette and presumably two bedrooms. For a minute, Martin is stunned.

“Wow.”

Behind him there is a deep chuckle as Sherlock steps out of the bathroom fully dressed in and rubbing a towel on his wet hair that curls at the tips against the collar of his sky blue shirt. He takes a seat on one of the two sofas; not so much ‘a’ seat but more like three of them, stretching out and using the towel as a pillow. Martin watches John watching Sherlock fondly. When John meets Martin’s eyes, there is a large, rather sappy grin on his face.

Martin smiles, too, thinking that is exactly the way he would love someone to look at him someday; with his luck, though, the one person he would love to be doing it is probably the one most uninterested.

“John, would you mind if I shower?” Martin asks.

“Sure, Martin, go ahead. I believe there are some clean clothes in there for you already.” John tells him.

Martin thanks him and makes sure that he locks the door before turning on the water. As he strips off his shirt, he catches his reflection in the mirror and not for the first time worries that he has made a big mistake; then he wonders if it is so strange to accept that his needs are being met so efficiently. 

Mycroft can’t change his life all that much, could he? According to Sherlock, it is a very real possibility. Mycroft said that Martin’s life wouldn’t _change drastically overnight_. As he gets in under the spray that lightly stings the skin between his shoulders, he sees the reflection of his back again before he closes the curtain and thinks that frankly, it already has.

***

Martin dresses quickly in the clothes left in the bathroom for him. Brand new jeans, a soft cotton undershirt, pants and a long-sleeve hunter green pullover all still have the tags on them. Burning with curiosity and amazed that everything is his size, he pulls the tags and stubbornly does not look at them. No reason to know for sure exactly how much you are in debt to someone else. Of the three men in the next room and the one who dropped him off at the hotel, the purchaser could very well be one or all of them.

He sighs, inhaling the clean scent of the no-doubt expensive soap and shampoo that he has just enjoyed. Martin allowed himself an extra-long shower this time and the hot water has done wonders at loosening up some of the tension in his shoulders.

Mimicking Sherlock, he grabs one of the smaller white towels from the rack and sets about the business of at least partially drying his ginger curls. When he feels like the towel is doing less drying and more mussing, he goes out to join the others.

He stops next to the couch that his brother is currently covering and pokes at the curl above Sherlock’s left eye. Sherlock manages to look up at him quizzically, even only opening that eye.

“I know I was in there for a while but was I _that_ long?” He asks.

Sherlock huffs and from the dining table John calls, “Never mind him, he is trying to think of a way to get bored.”

“John. We have established that there is _nothing_ interesting in this town. Being bored is an improvement over your suggestion.”

“What was his suggestion?” Martin wonders aloud.

“ _Crazy Golf._ ” Sherlock says with an overly dramatic shudder.

Martin frowns because that really doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea; he only catches Sherlock’s wink because the lanky git goes out of his way to ensure Martin sees it. He hides a smile behind his hand and joins John and Douglas.

The two men are playing a fast game of Blackjack and apparently the bets are being placed with peanuts from the minibar. John has about five but Douglas has a pile.

“Would you like in on this action?” Douglas inquires.

Martin almost drops the kettle he has picked up off the miniature range. He swallows hard, biting back _If you only knew…_ thankful his back is to them. “Uh, no. I’ll just watch, thanks.”

John laughs as he deals out another round. “Well, you can’t possibly do any worse than I am!”

A picture of Douglas standing outside the hotel room a bit ago comes to the forefront of his mind. _No, perhaps not._

***

They hang out in the room for a while longer. Douglas ends up with two pouches of peanuts, John and Martin finish two cups of tea apiece and Sherlock…does whatever it is he is doing when he flat on his back like that with his long fingers pressed together in a steeple in front of his lips.

“He looks studiously pensive that way.” Martin says to John, tilting his head to study his brother.

John snorts. Under his breath he mutters so that only Martin can hear: “I think he looks fantastic.” Outloud he says, “He looks ridiculous. Come on, Sherlock; let’s get out of here before you find a way to start climbing the walls.”

Martin laughs.


	8. Emotion

It turns out that Sherlock and Douglas combined stretch competitiveness to a degree slightly above ludicrous. Somehow, though, they manage to constantly one-up each other without cheating and the four of them spend a reasonably warm spring night on the crazy golf turf laughing and cutting up. Sherlock does not joke much, but the occasional quip that seems to randomly fall out of his mouth is sometimes hilarious because he _doesn’t_ mean it to be that way.

Martin unwinds and finds that being with Douglas outside of work really isn’t that much different from being with Douglas at the pointy end of a jet. The older man is as in control out here making nonexistent bets over what is a game for children as he is at GERTI’s controls.

Somewhere along the way, Martin mentions that in the summertime, he would come down here with Simon and Caitlyn; they would all eat ice cream after a couple of rounds. Of course, it is too early in the season for there to be any of those places open so he smiles against the sunset and smacks the little yellow ball with the silly red club in his hands.

Half an hour later he is eyeballing the two scoops of pistachio ice cream in a waffle cone being held out to him by a manically grinning Sherlock Holmes. Martin can feel his eyes widen with shock; beside him, John sighs fondly and Douglas just stares.

“Gimme the strawberry one.” John says, reaching out for it. Somehow smacking little balls around with clubs has turned them all into ten year olds.

“Only if I get to taste it.” Sherlock tells him, cocking an eyebrow; most certainly _not_ something he would have said at age ten.

It takes two full seconds, but Martin finally gets it. “Oh god.” He giggles and the ice cream wobbles in his hand.

Douglas is suddenly _right there_ and his hand is wrapped around Martin’s, holding the frozen snack upright. Martin somehow forgets how to get oxygen into his lungs. That seems important for some reason, but Douglas is looking, really looking at him and Martin wants to confess, wants to tell Douglas _everything_ but then Douglas smirks and…and…

Martin’s brain goes offline. There is no way he just saw Douglas bloody well _lick_ his two scoops from the top all the way around, his warm tongue millimeters from Martin’s fingers. Martin is aware that he has just made some sort of sound, but damned if he knows what it was.

“Sorry, captain, it looked like it was going to _drip_ right there.” Did Douglas’ voice just turn into crushed velvet?

Martin comes back to himself. His face is boiling. “Uh.”

Douglas chuckles and turns back to the game. Martin doesn’t move until John prods him with a finger to the ribs. Sherlock is standing at the end of the zigzag shaped green holding his club like a rifle. Douglas seems to be looking at Martin, but perhaps he’s just avoiding staring at Sherlock; maybe he thinks if he ignores the craziness, none of it will rub off on him.

 _Oh, God_. Martin thinks.

“Martin, you’re up.”

Martin finishes the cone and manages to lose spectacularly: more than twenty points over par.

***

Martin is starting to believe that between John, Sherlock and Douglas, one of them has a TARDIS, because, seriously? Where did the time go? They are sitting on tall stools at the bar of one of Fitton’s three pubs, idly staring at a glass of some sort of ale that he doesn’t remembering ordering. Beside him, Douglas and John are debating on playing darts; Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Martin decides that John is obviously not very worried, so Martin probably has no reason to be, either.

Martin finds it interesting that he is already looking up to John, like a big brother or a young uncle. If all is well in John Watson’s world, then everything is alright, full stop. Douglas turns to Martin and rests one of his warm, wide paws on Martin’s knee. Martin is only vaguely aware that Douglas is speaking to him; the only thing he can think of is that hand on his knee. After a few seconds of his wires being crossed and an incredibly short-lived fantasy that involves Douglas on _his_ knees, Martin is able to get himself together.

“No. Darts? Huh?” Martin winces at how idiotic he sounds.

Douglas laughs; it is a deep, hearty sound. Martin covers his nervousness by taking a deep draught of his beer and nearly spitting it all over the place. The stuff is terrible. The shock of the bitter flavor gets through to him, though.

“Urg. What is this?” He asks, feeling his nose wrinkle and his cheeks heat up.

Douglas smacks his palm on Martin’s knee. “That’s the non-alcoholic stuff you asked for, Martin?” He looks a bit put out.

Martin frowns at the pint. “Oh. Well, thank you. Sorry.”

“Only you could be gracious and apologetic in the same sentence, Martin.” Douglas croons. His hand is still on Martin’s knee.

In that instant, Martin finds himself wishing that they were alone because there is no way he could do this in public, even in a place as non-busy as this one. He gulps, his eyes locked on the first officer’s. Douglas seems to be leaning in closer, one hand on the bar, his body curved inward towards Martin. The heat coming off of him is fantastic. Martin wonders what it would be like if they were naked.

“Douglas, I…” he starts to say, forcing himself to keep his eyes locked on Douglas’ face. The older man leans in that much closer as if hanging on Martin’s every very quietly spoken word. Now could be the moment.

A loud cry of “Douglas!” comes booming from behind the first officer and his body shakes where a hand is pounding against his back. Douglas frowns and starts to tell Martin to hold that thought but Martin is already moving, striding towards the back of the place where the restrooms are. He takes a quick look of the big, good-looking man shaking Douglas’ hand in one even bigger and turns his face away as quickly as he can.

Martin hides in the stall at the very end of the line in the deserted men’s restroom. He sits on the commode with his feet on the ring, hunched over his knees. That did not go well. He is not going to cry. Martin takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself but is interrupted the sound of the door opening.

“Martin?” John calls out.

“M’here.” Martin says to his knees.

“Douglas said you came this way. I came in to tell you that somehow your brother managed to turn up a last-minute case all the way out here. Some unsolved thing from twenty years back….”

“Alright.” Martin answers.

“Right.” John says. “Anyway, Mycroft gave the all clear for you to go home, if you like. If not, you are welcome to go back to the hotel. I can’t promise you we’ll be back tonight, but we will make sure to see you before we head home.”

The dam finally breaks and it is the stupidest thing that does it: all the times that John says _we_. The words seem to stand out against the bleary walls in neon. Martin holds it in as long as he is able in order to say, “OK. I’ll just go on home.”

“Sure, Martin; are you alright?” John queries. Martin can hear the concern in his voice.

“Fine; out in a bit.” Martin hopes his voice doesn’t sound as tremulous to John as it does to himself.

Martin can tell that John wants to say something else, but then John’s mobile rings loudly. His boots shuffle against the maroon-colored tile as he takes the phone from his pocket. “Alright, Martin, see you later. Yes, yes, Sherlock, I am _right here_. Hang on. I’m coming! Don’t you…”

Silence falls in the room again, punctuated only by the tortured sound of Martin fighting valiantly to hold in his sobbing. He hates to cry, but after standing right on the edge of that emotional precipice…he was right there, dammit! After being that high, the let down is equally devastating. Martin tries hard to think of anything else but his brain keeps returning to the way he felt with Douglas leaning in towards him as if he was really interested in what Martin had to say.

Of course, it could be as simple as he could barely hear Martin and only wanted to catch it all to use as teasing fodder some later time.

It takes a few minutes, but Martin gets it together. He studies himself in the mirror over the sink, comparing his pale complexion, pale green eyes and fluffy ginger curls to the gorgeous man with a light tan, shiny teeth and perfect black hair…not to mention impeccably dressed…and here Martin stands in new clothes purchased for him by someone else.

He finds that his sorrow is being replaced by anger towards Douglas. Douglas who is always so good-looking and charming and just…

Everything that Martin is not.

He’s a pathetic excuse for a human being, washed up before he turns thirty-three. He hangs his head, searching for that place within himself that has kept him going for this long. Part of him wishes that John were still here, that he had been able to break through the metaphysical bond that stretches from Sherlock and maybe for a few moments get a little of that light cast upon himself…

“And, that, boys and girls, is one of the most selfish things I think I’ve ever thought.” Martin says to himself as he looks at his own reflection. “Who are you to think that someone like Douglas---the smooth-talking Sky God—could ever be attracted to you?” He slides his index finger down the glass against his furrowed brow and sighs; trying to remember the last time he was intimate with someone and the photograph of he and Sherlock wrapped up with each other comes unbidden into his mind.

Maybe that’s his problem: Douglas’ strong appeal is because it has simply been too long and Martin is in need of some basic human touch. The spot on his knee where Douglas rested his hand still tingles. Martin shakes his head and stands up straight.

Upon re-entering the pub, he is astounded to find that Douglas seems to have vacated the premises. Probably with the gorgeous giant from earlier, Martin thinks. Somehow he manages to keep himself together in order to ask the bartender if he can call a cab or if he knows the time of the next bus through this part of town.

The elderly man peers at Martin from beneath heavy grey eyebrows and says gruffly, “Martin Crieff? Believe yer ride’s already here.” He points towards the front of the building. Just beyond the windows Martin can see streetlights reflected in the ultra-shiny finish of a black sedan.

“Thanks.” He says and pushes open the door. Thankfully he is alone with the driver, who seems to know exactly where he wants to go. When the car stops in front of the student house, the driver opens Martin’s door with a flourish and smiles at him. Martin says thank you and starts to tug a couple of bills from his jeans pocket. He was surprised to find the money earlier but somehow managed to not spend any of it all evening, except for now. Perhaps he is just not used to having it. He holds a five pound note out to the driver, who grins and shakes his head.

“No sir, your thanks is enough.” The driver nods his head in Martin’s direction. “My sister, Paula, chartered the little jet you captain, sir, and she was impressed when her valuables arrived in Paris intact and on time.”

Martin stares at the man, feeling both a little rude and gobsmacked at the same time. “Thank you,” he says again and walks away knowing that his face is the color of tomato sauce. The man’s kind words were so unexpected that through the haze of the surprise and the emotional roller coaster from earlier, Martin climbs the steps to his room and changes into a pair of soft pajama trousers without even turning the lights on.

Vaguely he does notice that his futon feels incredibly soft and rolls over onto his belly to let the air of his room cool the skin on his back. He sighs and falls asleep before any more details register in his mind.


	9. Love

**Chapter 9: Love**

Martin is pulled from a dream of big hands gently caressing his shoulders, waking him slowly as his consciousness is made aware of his surroundings. He blinks awake to find that the gentle touches are coming from a steady stream of air puffing into his noticeably fresh room from the half-open window and causing the sheer white curtain covering it to dance. Martin closes his eyes and listens to the joyful chirps of the earliest spring birds as he comfortably slides back into sleep. This is his last full day off for a while; he owes it to himself to unwind a little. He takes a deep breath, inhales the fresh scent of the incredibly soft sheet beneath him and then he is instantly fully aware.

“Huh?” He says as he scrambles to sit up against the headboard. It thuds dully against the plain white plaster wall.

Headboard? He doesn’t own a bed!

In fact, he doesn’t own any curtains! And these sheets!

Martin runs his palm over the brick red linen, the action helping him calm down. He looks around and takes in the tiny touches that have added some personality to his normally spartan room: all of his meager belongings are still there, but little things have been added. Besides the curtains and the single bed, the decrepit table he has always used as a desk and the single beat-up chair he had are gone. In their places stands what appears to be a new chair, a modern glass-topped desk and is that a laptop?

Martin is overwhelmed. He scoots off the bed and slides into the simple desk chair that on second glance may not be brand new, but is still better than what he had before. The smooth leather is soft against his bare back and warms quickly to his body temperature. He flips open the device and waits for it to power up. On the home screen there is a new message. Martin looks for a mouse or an arrow pad only to see a little blinking box welcoming him to the touch screen. He shrugs and taps the message icon.

 

> _I do hope this is not overly drastic._
> 
> _-Your brother;_
> 
> _Mycroft Holmes_

Holy crap. What do you even say to that? Martin is torn between being happily shocked and thinking that perhaps Mycroft’s way of being a “good” older brother is going to push him into paranoia so far that he’s going to end up running around with an aluminum foil-covered hat!

Another message pops up as soon as he finishes reading the first one. This time he is informed that a new job has appeared on Icarus’ Dashboard. What? He pokes at the icon at the bottom of that message to find a scheduling book, with customers’ names, phone numbers, addresses and all the information he needs to get their belongings from Point A to Point B. A list of already-paid deposits accompanies the schedule that he is instantly certain will not interfere with any of his MJN flight times.

“This is too much.” Martin says to the room at large. He prods at the computer a little longer, getting familiarized with the machine. When someone knocks at his door, he almost shrieks, proof that he is not as 'okay' with the changes as he wants to be. As it is, he rushes towards his old bureau where he hurriedly grabs an old t-shirt and pulls it over his head. It is a little tight and pulls against the skin of his shoulders which he rolls to offset the sensation.

Another knock and Martin opens the door, wondering could possibly come next. It turns out to be Stephanie, one of the Ag students.

“Hey, Mister Crieff. Some lady in these bitchin’ heels just left this basket for you.”

“Uh.” Martin clears his throat, sure that she can hear his heart rushing headlong into cardiac arrest. He counts to three and reaches out for the brown wicker basket covered with blue cling film. “Stephanie, you know you can call me ‘Martin.’ Thank you.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Mister Crieff!” She smiles brightly and turns away from him, her bright pink ponytail swinging behind her.

Martin leans wearily against the door jamb, his face pressed to his forearm. When did he get so old? _Mister Crieff_ was his grandfather, for god’s sake. He closes the door and drops the basket down on the bed where it bounces against slightly on the firm new mattress. Finally, after it does nothing but sit there, he decides to open it. Martin tears at the cling wrap to find an odd assortment: some type of moisturizing lotion, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner of the same brand and type as John and Sherlock’s hotel room, shaving cream, aftershave, a new electric razor and oddly, a mobile phone. He frowns and fiddles with the smart phone and somehow switches it on. The contact list includes Carolyn, Douglas, John, Sherlock and Mycroft. His mom, Wendy, and his sister Caitlyn have been added as well. Martin shrugs, running his fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, thinking that his luck is going to run out sometime.

He heads to the tiny bathroom, flips on the shower, takes one look at his old bottle of cheap shampoo, turns on his heel and retrieves the basket. He is going to allow himself this luxury, just this once.

***

After he showers and shaves, Martin feels like a new man. As he pulls on the new pair of jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, his eyes dart around his room, landing on the laptop and he thinks about the schedule for Icarus. Nothing new until his first day off from MJN next week, so he still has the rest of the day. He whistles lightly as he walks down the steps and through the house to the parking lot. Several students give him a smile or a wave that he returns with interest.

In its normal parking space placidly sits his old van, looking exactly the same as it did yesterday when he and Sherlock got out of it. He jangles the keys in his pocket between nervous fingers as he walks around the vehicle. Unlocking the door proves to be no more exciting that it always does so he slides into the seat and puts the key into the ignition.

That’s where the change is most obvious. The engine purrs to life instead of gasping. Martin stares at the dashboard. Nothing else has changed. He turns off the van, gets out and opens the bonnet and is stunned. That’s got to be a new engine, because there is absolutely _no way_ in one single night that the old one was cleaned this well: the damned thing _gleams_. Martin stands there with one hand holding the hood and the other resting against the machine until he thinks about how insane this must look. He closes it, climbs in and is pull out of the student lot before he gives himself another chance to think about it.

He finds the hotel easily enough and pulls in, wondering for a few seconds whether he should have called ahead. John said that Sherlock was working, though, and that Martin was welcome any time. Martin knows they will be heading back to London sometime today, so he wants to take advantage of his own down time to see his brother. Who knows when they will get together again?

That leads him to another distressing thought: if it ever comes down to it, would Sherlock—and by extension, Mycroft—get along with Caitlyn and Simon? Technically, the latter two have known Martin far longer than the former two, but the Holmes boys are blood. The idea staggers the imagination. Of course, it is probably never going to happen. What chance is there of all of them ever meeting? Everyone’s lives are so _different_ , in reality there is probably very little chance of that. He wonders what Caitlyn and Simon would think of Douglas? Martin is sure Sherlock is already mostly aware of his…feelings…for the first officer, and so then John must. Without a doubt, Mycroft does, too.

An image of Douglas leaning against the tan wall in this very corridor seems projected on it. Right after that bit of memory, cruelly in fact, is the way Douglas’ expression looked as he leaned in closer to Martin at the bar…and then Douglas shaking hands with the big, smiling man at the pub. That leads to the memory of being so upset last night. He shakes his head against it all, preferring to let the changes to his tiny room at the student house overshadow the sad fact that Douglas Richardson, suave Sky God, probably only remembers Martin’s name in order to torment him on long flights.

Martin’s mind is so preoccupied that he is standing in front of the door to John and Sherlock’s suite before he realizes it. He blinks at the partially-open door, thinking that John left it open as an invitation for him. Martin opens it and lets it snap shut as he walks further into the suite, fully expecting to see John.

He does see John, actually. Only a whole lot more than he was counting on. John is sitting in one of the wooden chairs from the small table he and Douglas played cards at the day before, facing the door. Or he would be, but his head is tipped backwards, the back of it resting against the top of the chair and his eyes are closed. John’s bare chest is heaving, the skin blushing red beneath a fine dusting of gold hair. Martin stares at firm pectorals marred only by a nasty scar that could only be a bullet wound.

After that realization, Martin cannot stop himself from following the line of John’s body to where his bare legs are spread wide open, one foot hooked around Sherlock’s hip and one hand clutching at the back of Sherlock’s head; John’s fingers disappear into the jet black curls at Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock is far from naked, still wearing his black trousers, but his moss green shirt has been unbuttoned and the material moves in time with Sherlock’s bobbing head.

Martin cannot tear his eyes away, though it feels wrong, like walking in on your parents. In an instant, both men groan and there is wet, popping sound when Sherlock pulls off of John and surges upward, the muscles in his back straining the way a running horse's will as it rushes to the finish line. John’s hands are now pulling down on Sherlock’s shoulders, his legs wrapping around Sherlock’s hips. Every movement the two of them make is slow, languorous, elegant and so fucking beautiful it brings tears to his eyes. Martin knows he isn’t looking at sex for its own sake, and _that_ knowledge threatens to take him out at the knees. Sure, he has seen porn before but it has never been his forte, and now he knows why; why it never satisfied him, because right here in front of his face is proof that intimacy can be so much _more_.

The way John is holding onto the detective tears apart something deep inside Martin. It is at once beautiful to see two people so completely wrapped up in one another, but at the same time a dagger made of ice and jealousy is forced into Martin’s chest. Suddenly it gets difficult to breathe.

Still Martin stands, frozen now to the spot. He knows he should flee before they see him, but just the thought seems to interrupt them. John’s eyes fly open and he stares at Martin, his blue eyes like flames that threaten to sear the younger man. Martin holds up his hands and stammers.

“I…I’m sorry.” He backs towards the door.

John taps Sherlock’s shoulder and whispers something into his ear. Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother; Martin takes in the deep flush over his cheeks, the scarlet kiss-swollen lips and green eyes gone soft. He chokes and tries valiantly to fight the tears that are making it difficult to see.

“Martin, could you give us a minute?” Sherlock’s voice is deep, and incredibly, he seems as if he is attempting to be soothing obviously not angry at the interruption.

Martin nods his head, once again letting his eyes wander to John’s face. John smiles softly, no malice or spite or embarrassment. Martin backs through the door and drops against it when it closes; aware that he is much too close to the door where he should not be. He rushes towards the lift and rides it down to the lobby where everything around him is too bright, too clear; already fogging his memories of what he has seen. It is the knowledge that two people can find so much peace and happiness with each other that gives him hope for his own future.

He is by no means aroused by seeing his brother in such a compromising position; rather he is flustered because he has managed to live for a couple of minutes through him vicariously and seen something that his heart wants so desperately: to be loved so passionately...

Love. Martin drops onto the first bench along the pavement that he comes to, the word doing somersaults in his mind. It has always seemed to be such an unreachable concept to him. He thinks about Douglas and decides then and there that he is going to man up and tell the first officer as soon as they are alone tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you know, this chapter brought tears to my eyes.


	10. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin stands a little straighter and his strides become a bit more firm; after all, Douglas is always telling him that he should look like an airline captain.

**Chapter Ten: Details**

Martin waits on the bench until Sherlock and John appear, both of them looking satiated. Sherlock drops down beside him and John stands just behind them, resting a reassuring hand on Martin’s shoulder. Around them, people carry on as normal as if someone’s entire life has not been completely redefined in a matter of minutes.

Sherlock looks out to the street; Martin knows his eyes are catching the tiniest detail of every person who passes by and quite possibly some of the pets, too. Fitton is a boring place by Martin’s standards; he can only assume his brother feels the same way. At least the sun is shining.

“No, Martin, I haven’t been bored here.” Sherlock states without looking at him.

Martin feels his jaw drop; he gets the impression that such a statement from Sherlock is the same as bear hug. He stares at his brother and partially wishes that his own curls looked so good in the breeze; wondering if is some weird Sherlockian way he just admitted that he _enjoys_ being around Martin.

John’s hand tightens on his shoulder. He says warmly, “Yeah, he always does that. Took me a while to get used to it, too.”

Martin nods. Apparently, he has to be the one to breach the subject. “Look, I’m sorry, you know, about earlier.”

“No harm done Martin. We should have closed the door.” John tells him in a tone that says that’s the end of it.

“Okay.” Martin agrees, staring at the speckled pavement beneath his feet.

Martin can feel it when Sherlock finally sets his attention on him. He peers at his little brother through half-lidded eyes then his expression relaxes. “Lunch?” He asks when Martin glances at him.

Martin nods and follows the two of them down the pavement towards the short row of restaurants and shops that line the road. Martin notices that everything looks particularly colorful today, from the advert signs in the windows to a handful of wares outside the antique shop. Before they get to the restaurant, however, Sherlock pulls them into a used bookstore where they browse for half an hour. Martin and John spend the time talking quietly in chairs in the back of the place while Sherlock moves up and down each aisle, muttering darkly to himself. When they leave, he’s got a rather heavy-looking bag slung over his arm.

The three of them pass the afternoon companionably, John and Sherlock swapping stories about cases they have solved. Sherlock tells his side, which is primarily an outline of the facts laid out in a logical manner that makes Martin feel like a genius at the end of each one. On the other hand, John adds in the more vibrant details, such as the color of the old woman’s shoes or the way a man’s toupee was wrongly arranged on his head. All in all, Martin starts seeing himself less as Alice in the rabbit hole and more like a man who has been dropped into a comic book.

The quaint restaurant is practically empty at this time on a Sunday. Scattered throughout the place are a couple of families. The three of them are pretty much being ignored, except for several covert looks from both men and women in Sherlock’s direction. John lets Martin makes sure that he knows John sees them and smiles as he casually drapes his arm over the back of Sherlock’s chair.

Martin listens to the stories and plays with the frayed end of the mint green tablecloth on their table. There have been several times when John and Sherlock could simply be talking to each other, reliving their cases and occasionally bickering over some mundane fact.

After a while, the tide of the conversation changes and Martin finds himself in the spotlight. It is not that he is unwilling to tell them about himself, it is just that he doesn’t think he has much to talk about that compares with their tales.

Together, however, they say the right things and carefully draw Martin out so that he paints them a picture of what his life was like after he and Sherlock’s mother and father split up. It is all very boring and typical in Martin’s eyes, because after hearing of the near-constant derring-do of John and Sherlock, what can compare?

“Basically, I was a normal kid living a normal life, that’s all. I never blew up a science lab or turned my Mum’s white cat green. All I ever wanted to do, really, is fly.” That small nostalgic fact makes him smile.

“You did it, though, Martin. You do get to fly, almost every day if the big chart on the wall in the MJN office is anything to go by.” John says in a most paternal fashion.

Martin nods, remembering clearly John studying the wall chart. “I do, and it is worth foregoing a paycheck in order to do it, but…” he almost says _I always feel like something is missing._

John takes a drink of his coke and dips a chip into the ketchup on his plate. “Mycroft took care of some things for you, yeah?” He asks before popping the chip into his mouth.

Martin is thrown off a little by the change in subject. He looks to Sherlock for some help; Sherlock’s expression never changes, though he does frown a little. “Yes.” Martin can feel his face heat up.

“Well?” John asks.

“Oh.” _They want details_. Martin feels as if is he is very small and telling his da about some silly thing that he did at school. He stares down into his empty glass. “Someone put up curtains and uh,” he keeps his eyes averted. How bad is it to admit that he didn’t even have a proper bed before this?

Wait. Sherlock has been there. He already knew that. Martin’s eyes meet John’s over the table. He clears his throat. “I have a brand new bed, a desk and a laptop. One of the students brought me a basket full of toiletries and a phone, Stephanie--that’s the student--she said the basket was delivered by a woman in ‘bitchin’ heels,’ I think that was the term she used.”

Sherlock and John share a look. Sherlock nods once, an almost non-existent action and John smiles. “I’ll take the blame for the basket. I noticed that the shampoo at the hotel tamed his curls a little and thought maybe you’d have the same result.” He uses his index finger to draw a circle in the air around Sherlock’s and then Martin’s faces.

Sherlock laughs at this and mutters something about _noticed with your fingers_. John looks chastised and grins sappily up at his partner. Martin finds the other side of the restaurant very, very interesting and tries hard not to pay them anymore attention until John drums his fingers against the side of the table.

“It’s all really nice, but, what if I mess it all up? I mean, there’s this whole schedule for Icarus and I have never met any of those people and there was some money in the jeans I put on at the hotel last night and…and I just don’t know if I can handle all of this.” Martin drops his face into his hands.

Sherlock smirks but does nothing helpful. John takes pity on Martin. “Martin, once Mycroft takes an interest in you, just go along. As much as his meddling gets on my very last nerve, truly he has never really done anything that _didn’t_ serve to benefit me in the end. You deserve some creature comforts, if your place is anything like Sherlock described to me.”

Martin chews his bottom lip and thinks that just maybe his jacket-potato-as-a-treat nights are finally long gone. John is right, but it is still hard to accept any kind of charity, even if it is from long-lost family members.

“It’s not charity, Martin.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother. “Consider it to be too many years of being estranged.”His deep voice is serious and brooks no argument.

Martin really studies Sherlock now. Apparently, then, Mycroft did not work alone.

“Besides, you still have to do all the work concerning get your customers’ belongings moved, right?” John asks, swiping the bill off the table and holding it aloft like he’s won a prize. “Ha!” He says and waves it in Sherlock’s face. Sherlock ignores it and his face falls into an expression that screams _dull_.

“Yes, I do.” Martin feels a bit more cheerful now and when they part outside the hotel in order for John and Sherlock to return to London, it is with the promise that they will be able to spend more time together soon. Martin starts the van and wonders at the smile that has appeared on the freckly face looking back at him in the rearview. He checks his watch, considers that he’s got all evening and decides to drive over and see if there is any paperwork he can expedite tonight before flying tomorrow.

***

The portakabin is quiet and Martin settles at his desk with inborn efficiency. He finishes some paperwork from a few days ago that Douglas apparently ignored. In retrospect, though, that’s really nothing new. Images of Douglas try to surface in his mind and he fights them back. He has no idea where the first officer is at the moment; Martin wonders if he even wants to know. He signs the bottom of a page with a flourish and drops it on Carolyn’s desk.

Martin is on the way to his van when he hears a strange sound behind the portakabin. He walks to the edge and finds Arthur sitting on a tiny patch of grass with a petite blonde girl in his arms. Someone-probably the girl-has tucked a little white flower behind Arthur’s ear and he is grinning at her like the cat that got the cream.

Martin is between deciding if he wants to laugh or vomit on the sugar overload when Arthur spots him.

“Hey Skip! What are you doing out here today?” Arthur asks, quite unworried about his current position. He is dressed in a dark blue long-sleeved tee, jeans, and worn-out trainers; the girl in his lap wearing similar attire, except that her hoodie is bright pink to match her trainers. She checks Martin out over her shoulder and gives him a shy smile. Arthur’s hands are wrapped around her small waist, his fingers almost meeting at the center of her back.

“Hey, Arthur.” Martin answers.

“Skip, this is Taffy. Taffy, this is Skip.” The girl waves a little.

“So, uh, what are you two up to?” Martin asks as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

Taffy blushes and moves so that Martin can only see the back of her head. Arthur giggles and Martin knows that he’s going to throw up for sure. They look at each other and laugh. “Isn’t she _brilliant_ , Skip?” Taffy titters.

“See you later, Arthur. Nice to meet you, Taffy.” Martin heads back to his van at a faster clip than he’d intended, thinking that it is going to be an incredibly long evening.

***

_Sing to the river_

_The lessons I’ve learned_

_Sing to the river_

_The lessons I’ve learned**_

The heavy backbeat of the drums wakes Martin from a heavy, dreamless sleep. He blinks a few times and stares at the clock, scratching at the stubble along his chin. Then it sinks in that he has slept half hour past the time he should have been up. That's not going to go down well with Carolyn after being on the ground for three days.

“Dammit.” Martin rolls out of the bed that he still has not quite gotten accustomed to. He shakes his head and grabs his clean, pressed uniform out of the wardrobe in the corner. It is still in its bag so he yanks the bag off and hangs it on the back of the bathroom door. Martin showers quickly, shaves equally so and slaps on his watch. He’s got less than five minutes to get out the door so he brushes his teeth and pulls his trousers on at the same time. Sliding his feet into socks and into his shoes that look a lot more polished than they did the last time he saw them…really, though, there is no time to ponder that after all the other things that have happened over the last few days.

He takes a quick look around the room, shoves his keys into his pocket and gets his hat from where it hangs on the footboard of his bed, a place of pride. Hair still damp, he flattens it with his fingers. He can only hope it looks halfway respectable once it dries, he thinks as he shrugs into his dark blue blazer and drapes his tie around his neck. Martin runs down the stairs and is in the van on the way to the airport before he realizes he slipped his uniform on over his naked body. Well, that is certainly going to make the day more interesting.

As he is climbing the stairs to the office, he has a vague worry that his white will be too thin and everyone who looks at him will be able to see every detail of his skin. _Who I am kidding, standing next to Douglas, who is going to even be looking at me_? He opens the door and steps over the threshold, bracing himself for anger and doing up his tie at the same time. Carolyn is a stickler about not starting hours until they are properly in uniform.

“Well, at least _one_ of my drivers shows up to work!” Carolyn greets him with a genuine smile and most bizarrely, a hug.

Martin is shocked by the gesture. “I’m sorry I’m late…” he stammers.

“Pish!” Carolyn says, waving his words away. “I’m glad you are here after running into Arthur and his newest Pony Club crush.” She gives a dramatic shudder and Martin feels a laugh pulled from his throat before he can stop it.

Carolyn gives him a look then hands him the flight plan. “Go, pilot, and file this so we can get into the air. Hopefully that worthless first officer will show up before you get back!”

Martin nods, accepting the paper and letting go the breath he has been holding since he woke up. As he walks towards the control tower, he takes the time to really take stock of his uniform and the fact that the legs of his trousers are actually touching the top of his shoes. Well.

Martin stands a little straighter and his strides become a bit more firm; after all, Douglas is always telling him that he should _look_ like an airline captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lyrics to Counting Stars (C) One Republic


	11. Lemons and Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the words fall from his mouth in a rush. “Douglas, do you know how hard it is to be near someone…someone that has come to mean more to you than just a co-worker? Somewhere along the way, I think I’ve developed feelings for you, Douglas, and it is okay if you don’t return them, but I’ve got…I’ve got to let you know because it is crushing me and I was jealous of my own brother and Arthur, for God’s sake and…”

**Chapter Eleven: Lemons and Sugar**

Martin reflects after the fact that perhaps allowing Douglas to teach Arthur how to play ‘The Traveling Lemon’ was probably a bad idea. Of course, there is always plenty of time to think about these things _after_ a paying customer requests a meeting with “the captain” in person. He sighs and straightens his hat before pushing through the door of the portakabin; he is starting to detest doors.

“No. Not you. You aren’t the captain.” A high, nasally voice fills the atmosphere. “I’m not quite sure who you are or why your little charter company has the nerve to toss around a lemon while people are trying to _work_ , but listen here, you have another thing coming. I’m going to see you are reported to the proper authorities!” She shouts.

 _Well, at least she’s polite_. Martin thinks drily as he closes the door with a little more force than he had intended. The haughty woman dressed in a charcoal grey power suit manages to look down her nose at him, even though she stands a good five inches shorter. Her eyes bore into his.

“I am the captain, ma’am. You requested a private audience with me.” Martin says, hoping that mentally channeling Sherlock’s _nothing bothers me_ attitude is going to help. It has been a long day and the last thing he wants to do is deal with the aftermath of one of Douglas’ games.

“No.” The woman insists. Martin tries to remember her name and fails.

“Yes, ma’am, I assure you that I really _am_ the captain.” He tries for authoritative, but even he can hear the slight wobble in his voice. Martin faces the angry customer and she steps back a pace to look up at him. _That’s a first_ , he considers, thinking that maybe she is going to calm down and realize that she is all fired up over a stupid little game. If Arthur would have been able to just keep his mouth shut, Martin wouldn’t be standing here now.

Of course, he really is not angry at Arthur, he’s angrier at himself for not putting a stop to it. The woman crosses her arms over her chest and the rather frightening handbag she is carrying swings between them like the blade of the guillotine. Martin gulps silently, hoping that no one else is around to hear this. He’s not going to throw any of the others under the bus; though, since ultimately, as captain, the things that go wrong are as much his responsibility as the things that occasionally go _right_.

“You nasty liar. I know you aren’t the captain, it’s that big man with the oily voice like some sort of posh salesman. Let me guess, he put you up to it, eh?” She spits.

Martin tries hard to hold onto what he was taught about respecting angry females, even though he really feels like he’s standing in a sand pit with a cobra. Her expression is red with fury and her long, pale pink fingernails remind him of bear claws. Martin steals himself one more time.

“I assure you, ma’am that I am…I…” Martin almost growls at himself when he stutters as she flies at him, the handbag making contact with his side over his kidney because he turned away from her at the last minute. He clenches his teeth.

The door between Carolyn’s office and the main room flies open and Carolyn practically flies out of it. She grabs the woman’s arms and pins them behind her back in a single movement. Martin is completely dumbfounded, he had no idea Carolyn was that strong. Carolyn pushes the woman forward without letting go and Martin steps aside and lets them pass without saying anything. The hit didn’t hurt too overly much and he is glad his first instinct was to turn away from it rather than retaliate.

As the two ladies clomp down the metal steps, Martin hears Carolyn’s voice. “You. Don’t. Manhandle. My. Captain.” He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so in the end he just stands there lost in thought and wondering what Douglas would have done in the same situation. He bows his head and pulls off his hat, letting it dangle between his fingers as he regards the tops of his shoes. The urge to cry out of embarrassment settles on his shoulders and only gets stronger when he hears familiar footsteps crossing the threshold.

In a few seconds, Douglas is there absent-mindedly straightening his tie and then his lapels. Martin is sure they have been crooked all day and no one thought to mention it to him, probably assisting in the customer’s belief that someone has badly put together as himself could never be a captain. Oddly, the first officer’s hands run down Martin’s arms and stop at the gold bars. _Probably thinking that he should be wearing them now_ , Martin’s unhelpful subconscious offers up. For his part, Martin has the urge to beg Douglas to pull him close and hold him, but he knows how weak that sounds, even in his own mind. Douglas clears his throat.

“Martin, really, you didn’t have to take all the blame.”

Martin shakes his head and sits down at his desk, moving a little more slowly than normal because his side is now aching a little. _What did she have in that thing, anyway, iron bricks_? He scratches at his head, feeling the curls break loose from where they have been smashed beneath his hat all day. Sighing, he pulls his logbook out of the stack on the desk.

“Come on, captain, you need a drink.” Douglas offers. Martin looks up to find Douglas filling his sight, not giving him the chance to back out. It’s the pub all over again. Under his breath, Martin mutters, _you have no idea what I need_. Douglas looks at him over his shoulder and for a second Martin’s heart stops, thinking he has been heard. The first officer says nothing, however, and herds Martin towards his Lexus in the parking lot.

Martin almost stops walking when he feels warmth at the small of his back that is gone quick enough for him to believe he imagined it. Douglas’ hand is opening the car door, however, so Martin gives him a little nod and slides into the passenger seat.

***

Martin fidgets with the cash in his pocket during their meal and the promised drink. Douglas does most of the talking; about his daughter, MJN, and things he has seen and done long before Martin came on the scene. Martin valiantly stops himself from asking about the man in the pub from the other day, but he does manage to glean that Douglas is not seeing anyone. Douglas asks a few questions about Sherlock and John; somehow Martin manages to deflect them and Douglas continues to spin yarns of the good old days back at Air England.

He sips the whiskey sour slowly and tries to hide the shiver that runs down his back when Douglas mentions a nightcap at his house. Since they both have to be back at the airport tomorrow and Martin’s van is there, he agrees that sleeping in Douglas’ spare bedroom for the night isn’t such a bad idea. Of course, this just kicks up his heart rate and by the time the check is deposited on the table, he is half out of his mind with excitement at the idea of being so close to Douglas. He tries to grab the check but Douglas is quicker and offers Martin a sly grin as he slides his credit card into the holder.

Martin excuses himself to use the loo then spends five minutes steadying his breathing by resting his hands on the sink. He knows it’s the proximity of Douglas that is crushing him, because he drank less than half of his cocktail. Martin stands up straight, once again thinking of Douglas’ words about _looking_ the part and pulls it together.

***

Martin’s tension is ratcheted up another notch when they get to Douglas’ house. Douglas points Martin to the sitting room as he goes into the kitchen, presumably to make tea.

Martin grabs the television remote like a lifeline and starts flipping channels as he thinks of a way to finally do what he promised himself he would at the first chance: tell Douglas how he feels about him. He has finally gotten a rough script put together in his head when Douglas appears out of nowhere and hands him a cup.

“Thank you.” Martin says quietly against the noise in his head. He barely notices when the remote gets slipped out of his hand.

“Martin, would you please talk to me?” Douglas asks as he sits down in the chair next to the sofa. Martin watches him cross his legs and tries not to be too obvious when he eyes wide shoulders now more obvious since Douglas apparently lost his own uniform jacket while he was in the kitchen. Douglas big hand is comfortably wrapped around a mug of tea identical to the one Martin is holding. His eyes meet the first officer’s for a moment and then he can’t look at him at all because it seems that Douglas has braced himself for something. Martin studies the weave of the carpet at Douglas’ now bare feet.

Martin takes this as a sign he can get comfortable and toes off his own shoes then pulls his legs up, making himself as small as possible so that whatever Douglas is bracing himself for may not be as bad as Martin fears. When their eyes meet again, Martin could almost swear that he saw the older man blush.

Finally, the words fall from his mouth in a rush. “Douglas, do you know how hard it is to be near someone…someone that has come to mean more to you than just a co-worker? Somewhere along the way, I think I’ve developed feelings for you, Douglas, and it is okay if you don’t return them, but I’ve got…I’ve got to let you know because it is crushing me and I was jealous of my own brother and Arthur, for God’s sake and…”

Douglas has not taken his eyes off Martin’s face.

“Douglas, did you even hear me?” Martin asks at the same time Douglas licks his lips. Martin can’t take it anymore, instantly deciding that _words_ are useless and _actions_ are better. He launches himself up off the sofa and into Douglas’ lap and presses their lips together, all in the space of a single heartbeat.

Martin’s heart is being torn apart as he pushes as close as he can get and wraps his arms around those wide shoulders he was admiring earlier. It may be that half a whiskey sour is enough to give him courage or quite possibly the sound Douglas makes when Martin’s tongue explores the outside of his lips. Douglas cants his hips upwards and Martin makes the snap decision that it’s now or never. He clamps his legs around Douglas’ hips on the next slow thrust so that he is balanced on his thighs. One of Martin’s hands finds its way into the hair at Douglas’ nape and Douglas moans. Taking that as permission, Martin pushes his tongue farther into Douglas’ mouth and adjusts Douglas’ head with the hand on the back of his neck. Martin rocks on Douglas’ lap as the first officer’s fingers hook themselves between Martin’s belt and his trousers, his thumbs brushing over his shirt, seeking skin.

When they pause for air, Martin gazes into Douglas’ brown eyes and asks in a voice laced with desire, “Are you listening now?”

Douglas stares at him. “Indeed I am, Captain.” He says in almost a whisper as Martin grabs his face and _growls_. He kisses him hard then gets impossibly closer and pulls the lobe of Douglas’ ear between his teeth, gently teasing it with his tongue. Douglas sucks in a sharp breath and bucks his hips.

“Bedroom, Captain?” Martin starts on the other ear as Douglas’ hands tighten against his hips.

Martin’s voice is practically subsonic when he says directly into Douglas’ ear, “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that all night.” Douglas grabs the back of Martin’s neck and Martin tenses, just for a second, enough that Douglas loosens his hold but not enough from stopping Martin from kissing him again. For a bit longer, Martin loses himself in the sensation of _Douglas_ ; thrilled to no end to be staking his claim on that oft-clever mouth.

They part again and Martin peers around the room, his heart pounding in his ears. Douglas nuzzles up close to Martin’s ear and the purr that comes from him almost gets Martin off right then and there. “Right down the hall, sir.”

Martin’s eyes slip closed and he moves off of Douglas. He takes a moment to compose himself and consider everything he is about to reveal before he gets a brilliant idea and begins unbuckling his belt as he walks towards the bedroom. As he steps into the room, he pulls his uniform shirt out of his trousers and does not miss Douglas’ sharp intake of breath. Martin reaches out for him, but Douglas holds up a reassuring hand.

“Make yourself comfortable, Captain. I’ll just be a minute.” Douglas moves towards what Martin believes is the loo and Martin takes the time to check out his surroundings. On one wall there is a huge window. Martin moves to it and looks out at a small flower garden. White flowers reflect the fiery oranges and soft blues of the sunset back at him. As he takes in the care obviously lavished on several ornamental trees and rose bushes, he slips his shirt off; the feeling of the air on his skin makes him sigh.

Martin holds his tongue when he hears Douglas step up behind him. He is expecting the sharp inhalation from the other man and quite possibly even shock. Martin also knows that this part could go very, very wrong and Douglas may disapprove to the point of telling Martin to get out. Martin doesn’t think so, though, simply because he has never heard Douglas say anything about the subject, one way or the other.

Martin can feel Douglas’ eyes on his back and the heat from Douglas’ palm hovering over his shoulder; the very idea of someone finally _touching_ makes him weak in the knees. Douglas is almost panting from what Martin can hear. He knows full well what Douglas is seeing and how amazed he was when it was finally finished. The end product was worth the irritation and the pain. He lets Douglas stand there another moment as he bolsters up his own courage.

“Go ahead.” He whispers into the heavy, still air. Fresh warmth from Douglas’ wide palm against his shoulder where one of the phoenix’s wings is spread causes him to shiver and clench his teeth. Martin wonders vaguely when the skin on his back was surgically attached to his cock.

He hears Douglas swallow. “This is not…” Martin can hear the unsaid part of the sentence. He looks over his shoulder and gives Douglas a slow wink. “I know.” Soon, Martin will tell him the whole story, but that is not going to be right now.

Douglas steps in closer and Martin can feel that he’s got both hands spread over the tattoo, his fingers tracing the design that took so many hours to perfect. Martin’s instinct is to run away now that he has literally shown Douglas all of his secrets, but Douglas’ voice stops that notion.

“When?” Something inside Martin begins to shine at the sound of Douglas’ voice breaking. He is running all eight of his fingertips along the design now, giving Martin goose bumps. He rolls his shoulders under Douglas’ hands and rocks backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet.

“God Douglas.” Martin tries to hold back the words, but it feels so damned good. All the time spent on his belly while the artist worked the skin over seems to have made it more sensitive to every touch. Douglas grabs Martin’s hips and pulls him into his body. His fingers move from Martin’s back to his trousers and Martin moans and trembles.

When Douglas licks the back of his neck, a growl escapes his throat and he rolls his hips backwards. Martin turns in Douglas’ arms and makes quick work of the first officer’s clothes, his fingers flying over buttons and unzipping his trousers with a graceful speed belying his usual clumsy impulses. Martin pushes Douglas backwards with his entire body and they land with Martin crouched over Douglas, balanced with his hands on either side of Douglas’ head. Douglas’ eyes flicker over Martin’s face. Martin takes that as new permission and captures his mouth in a full-on assault. Martin is no longer thinking anything except _need_ and _want_ and _have to have_. When Douglas’ hands start pushing Martin’s trousers down over his arse and then grab and pull him forward so that their cocks rub against each other, Martin lets out another long moan.

Douglas bucks upwards then Martin almost shouts when one of those big hands he has fantasized about so much grip both of their straining erections and begin to stroke them off. Martin can feel the muscles in his thighs tighten as he rides out the shocks off all the sensations. He is powerless to stop his orgasm when Douglas slows his hand and begins pulling their cocks together with long, slow strokes that are too much and not enough at the same time.

“God Douglas.” Martin warns as he comes hard, all the pent up emotions rolling through his body like a tidal wave.

Douglas isn’t far behind and when Martin clambers off of him and makes his way to the bathroom he is suddenly overwhelmed. A deep snore tells him that the first officer is down for the count. Martin is wracked with both guilt and insecurity.

What the hell did he just do? He rushes back into the bedroom and grabs his shirt from the floor in front of the window, looks at Douglas again and has to flee. He pulls the shirt on and makes for the couch where he curls up, angry at himself for trembling like a frightened child. What if Douglas feels like he’s been taken advantage of? What if their encounter was so bad that he throws Martin out and then decides to make him the laughing stock of the industry? Douglas knows an awful lot of people who could easily make Martin’s life a living hell.

Douglas comes out of the bedroom much faster than Martin expected. He braces himself against the arm of the sofa and watches the other man warily. What he wants to say can’t be too bad, though, because Douglas has at least had the presence of mind to pull on a dressing gown.

Martin is suddenly all too aware of his own mostly-nakedness. Douglas expression is blank when he says, “Uh?”

Martin looks up at him, feeling more nervous now than a few minutes ago. Douglas sits down next to Martin and puts his arm around Martin’s shoulders and hauls him close. Martin sighs at the contact and the realization that Douglas really is bigger than him. Martin closes his eyes against the need to burrow in closer and the fear of being seen as a weak person for needing that.

“I’m sorry.” There, he said it. Now they can go their separate ways.

“What for?” Douglas chuckles.

Oh god. _He’s laughing at me_. “I’ve just…well. I’ve been alone for so long…and…well.” How do you explain this away?

Douglas sighs and Martin can feel his expanding ribcage through the light layers of material between them. “Martin, listen, because I am only going to say this once.” Martin listens.

Douglas continues. “You are by no means a weak man, but, really, do you think you could force _me_ into anything I didn’t want to do?”

Douglas’ arm tightens a bit across his shoulders, causing Martin to shift against his side. His mind reels with the information and it sets off some of the crushing guilt he was working himself into. He is at a loss for words.

Douglas laughs, presumably at Martin’s indecision and explains himself further. “Martin, if you will have me, you’ll not have to be alone the rest of your life.”

Martin turns toward Douglas in surprise and he knows that all of his emotions are clear. Douglas cups Martin’s face in his hands and gazes into his eyes. Martin thinks that he could drown in those jewel-like amber seas. He is so stunned that all he can do is hang there, grounded by Douglas’ physicality.

Douglas frowns. “Martin, this time I really need you to say something.”

Martin does not like the way Douglas now sounds unsure. “Yes, Douglas?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a question, but it is. Douglas seems to understand because he answers.

“Yes, Martin.” Martin responds to the gentle tugging and this time when they kiss, he lets Douglas lead and thinks that he could spend the rest of his life right here and never want for anything ever again. The heaviness in his chest that has been threatening to choke him countless times in the past weeks and days breaks loose as he runs his hands through Douglas’ hair and proceeds to take over their kiss.

Somehow they wind up back in the bedroom, eventually tangled up in one another’s arms. Martin falls asleep facing away from Douglas because Douglas can’t keep his fingers off of Martin’s back. The last thing he hears is Douglas’ voice saying, “You know this _is_ you, Martin.” He places a kiss at the place where Martin knows the top of the phoenix’s head must be and Martin drifts into the night on feathered wings, cradled in strong arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a big chunk of this chapter seems familiar to you, well, it is. After I wrote When Life Hands You Lemons, I was unsatisfied. It just felt like something was missing, so, as I am sure that you have already figured out by the scant few clues throughout, this story is the reason why Martin and Douglas finally got around to admitting how they feel about each other. I know it took a long way to get there; and I won't lie and say that there isn't still to be more story in me that takes place *after* this one, but I won't promise when that will be. So yeah, I'm sorry if I cheated a little but Lemons just needed more of a back story. Really, though, do we ever need an excuse to write sweet, freckly, lovable Martin? Thank you all for reading/subscribing/leaving kudos and comments! We writers thrive on them :D

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Mycroft is 7 years older than Sherlock and 10 years older than Martin (16)  
> Sherlock is 3 years older than Martin. (9)  
> Martin is adorable. (6)
> 
> (-)= age when you first meet them in the story


End file.
